Cassio had been standing at the back of the room, a large chamber full of tables spread with charts and maps, from which Othello ran his command. The captain pushed Jessica and me forward.

“Lady, a sister of mercy has come to give you comfort.”

I bowed my head and said, sotto voce, “Let us go to a quiet place to pray, child.”

Othello nodded and gave Desdemona into Cassio’s arms. Cassio embraced us both and guided us out of the room, Desdemona smothering her grief against my nunly bosom, Jessica following close behind. Once we were out of the command room and Cassio had left and closed the door between us and Iago, I threw up my veil and said, “Don’t shed too many tears. Your father was a murderous fuck-toad, wasn’t he?”

“Pocket?” Her grief turned to confusion.

“A right scurvy wretch, ’e was,” said Jessica. “Not fit for shark chum.”

“Don’t mind her, love, she’s just being piratey.”

“She?”

“Aye,” said Jessica. “I’m a bloody split tail in disguise, ain’t I? Wench bits from stem to stern, innit?” She gestured to those spots where her various wench bits lay hidden.

Desdemona nodded slowly, as if she understood, when clearly, grief had made her loopy. “And you are now a purple-and-green nun?”

“Sewed his habit me-self,” said Jessica. “Only had the purple and green to work with. Told everyone ’e’s in order of St. Crispin, patron saint o’ fried snacks.”

“We heard you’d gone back to France,” said Desdemona.

“Oh, that? That was a rumor started by that dog-fucking scoundrel Iago,” said I. “No, lady, thanks to your father, I am quite dead. As will you and the Moor be if you do not heed my warning.”

“I didn’t know that Iago even liked dogs,” said Desdemona, missing the point somewhat.

Fifteen: What Wicked Webs

FIFTEEN

What Wicked Webs

CHORUS:

Plots in dark Iago’s mind,

Like spiders’ wicked webs unwind,

In every glance he finds a slight,

A mark for vengeful arrow’s flight,

Schemes unveiled by waxing moon,

Reveal the knave a barking loon,

He vows by all that’s Hell and night,

To bring this monstrous birth to light.

Once installed in their quarters at a local inn, Iago paced before Rodrigo as the innkeeper, who was quite deaf, swept the stone floor around them.

“Did you see him? Did you see him? Did you see him? Oh, the counting clerk, the arithmetician, the bookish theorist—no soldier is he?”

“Othello?” inquired Rodrigo, who was into the spirit of the rant, but not quite clear on the subject.

“No! No, not Othello—though the spirits know I despise him more—the Florentine Michael Cassio. Did you not see him, his arms wrapped round Desdemona like some tentacled monster?”

“He was giving comfort to the lady. You had just told her of her father’s death.”